


Not Over Before It's Too Late

by Neelh



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Arguing, Break Up, Fights, M/M, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 21:33:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1564829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neelh/pseuds/Neelh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They don't even remember how it got to this point, with both of them at opposite ends of the room and hurling cold words at each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Over Before It's Too Late

**Author's Note:**

> Betaed by Pyla, as per usual.

"Maybe if you weren’t so drunk all the time, we wouldn’t be having this conversation!" Enjolras shouts from one side of their room of the Musain.

All of the Amis sit around the tables, with various expressions. Feuilly has a secure hand on Bahorel’s shoulder, not allowing him to move and punch either of the two men arguing. He might not have needed to, if Cosette had allowed Éponine to have her way and leave Enjolras bleeding on the floor from the first few seconds that the men’s bickering turned into something more poisonous. The others have gaping mouths in various states of shock or fear, except for Combeferre, whose expression just seems deeply sad. When Enjolras risks a glance at him, he sees what could tears and a look of inevitability in his round brown eyes, before he tears his gaze way and back to his lover smirking, his eyes more guarded than they had been since the two had started dating.

Grantaire grins, though it is twisted into the feral smile of a wolf. “So this is my fault now? My fault that you can’t change the world?”

"Your fault for baiting me into this, maybe," Enjolras snorts. "Tell me, dearest, are you good for anything else?"

"Maybe I’m not," replies Grantaire, smirking as he idly sips from his bottle, "though at least I care about the wellbeing of my friends."

Enjolras growls, fire building in his eyes more than it ever had before.

"Leave us out of this!" Joly cries. "We’re not here for you to-"

Bossuet slaps a hand over his boyfriend’s mouth, though not out of unkindness. Any interference could lead to the two becoming unhappier for a while. It will be for the best to get this over with as quickly as possible. Enjolras prays to any deity that exists that Grantaire won’t stay sad for too long.

"What the fuck do you know?" Enjolras screams. It is the loudest he has ever been in such an intimate setting. "You’ve never payed attention to me beyond your own need for a sounding board for your stupid fucking rants and rambles because you can’t organise your thoughts in your own fucking head and when you need a lift home because you’re drunk off your arse again! I apologise for having faults because I’m fucking human instead of the marble statue you keep calling me-"

"You’re doing a great goddamn job of impersonating a statue, though," Grantaire laughs. "Stone cold and fucking hot. Of course, the last bit is in reference to your great arse."

Enjolras crosses the room in a few angry strides and slaps Grantaire across the face. The sound of the smack of his palm against the rough, stubbled cheek of Grantaire echoes throughout the room, where everyone seems to have stopped breathing.

"Enjolras-" Bahorel begins to shout, but Feuilly silences him with a solemn shake of his head.

"Is that all I was to you?" Enjolras asks after a moment, his voice low and intimate. He had used a similar tone to initiate sex between them both only a few days ago. When had it all gone wrong? "Was I just a cold… A cold object? Someone you could pick up and fuck whenever you wanted? Someone - no,  _something_  - without feelings?”

Grantaire keeps his gaze with a steady glare. His eyes seem glassy. “That sure seems to be what you are now.”

Enjolras returns to his previous place near the other wall, though instead perches on the table in front of it. When he looks back, his eyes are as cold, if not more so, as his boyfriend’s. “That explains a lot, actually.”

"Would you care to expand on that?" Grantaire smiles viciously, gesturing widely with his arms. "I’m sure everyone’s dying to know of my shortcomings."

Enjolras’s voice is strained and falsely cordial. “Do I really need to say more than I already have? I do believe that it’s your turn to tell me about how I have so deeply wronged you.”

Grantaire laughs, almost hysterical. “Your hypocrisy is so deeply rooted in you that you’ll mock me before I’ve even had my say in the same way that you do! You claim to love the people of your nation, but whenever you meet one of the ignorant bourgeois, you immediately jump at their throats instead of educating them. Not to mention your eternal anger and disappointment in everything I do and everything I am.”

"Everything you are?" smiles Enjolras. His blue eyes glint coldly. "You mean a junkie and an alcoholic?"

The intake of breath shared by the room is punctuated by the sound of glass shattering against the wall. Enjolras had barely been given any time to move his head as the bottle was thrown towards his skull with dangerously good aim, and the wine that soaked the wall behind him could have been the blonde’s blood.

"Need to work on your aim," he comments, still with his false friendly tone. "Was that just the booze, or are you mixing your drugs and your alcohol again? You know that’s not hea-"

Grantaire lunges across the room and punches Enjolras in the face. His fist lands with a sickening crunch, leading Enjolras to respond with lightning fast reflexes. The blonde kicks out, leaning back against the table and his heel connecting with Grantaire’s abdomen. Soon, it becomes a full brawl with both aiming to hurt as much as possible, with hands instead of words this time.

Enjolras feels soft arms wrapping around his waist and holding him in a vicelike grip, pulling him away from where he was straddling Grantaire’s stomach and punching the man’s face, while also trying not to show his pain from where he was being hit in the stomach repeatedly.

"Enjolras, stop!" Combeferre’s voice says in his ears. He sounds desperate, but Enjolras can’t bring himself to care.

"So I suppose you don’t want this relationship to continue?" he asks, trying to repeat his earlier cordial tone but instead sounding bitter and worn down.

"Evidently not," Grantaire replies, his tone cool.

"Then we have nothing left to say to each other," says Enjolras.

Grantaire nods curtly before turning and leaving the room. Bahorel glances around and nods at Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta, who follow him through the doors and down the stairs.

Enjolras simply stares at the wall with the wine stain. Grantaire did that. Grantaire did that because he was angry. Grantaire did that to him because Enjolras made him angry.

He begins to sob. It is quiet at first, just a few gasps, before his exhalations begin to hurt his throat and make his entire body shake like a battered old rag doll. He wraps his arms around his body as he sinks to the floor as slowly and softly as a shipwreck descending through water until it hits the ocean bed. His sobs become screams and wails as he curls up on the floor, incapable of seeing his friends’ uncomfortable faces through the sheer amount of his tears.

When his eyes are dry and red and his throat sore from screaming, his body - still gasping and shaking, sometimes arching oddly in a pathetic parody of copulation - begins to purge itself of bile. It burns his throat as he regurgitates it and splatters on the floor. He feels gentle fingers move his golden curls out of his face and hold them in place at the nape of his neck.

He doesn’t know who it is, and doesn’t really care either. He no longer has the person he loved and loathed most in the world, so nothing matters anyway.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Letterbomb by Green Day.


End file.
